


The Isolationists

by velveteenshadowboxer



Series: What Happened After [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Consent Issues, Friends to Lovers, Human!Derek, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velveteenshadowboxer/pseuds/velveteenshadowboxer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen, says Stiles.</p>
<p>Derek closes his eyes. Ok, he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Isolationists

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, post-apocalyptic AU. Cuz I'm so original, you know? *kills self*
> 
> Enjoy. This is my second fic.

In the deep of the woods at night he wanders, long and often, never quite sure if what draws him is the quiet or the atmosphere or the ephemeral sense of calm and safety that have elsewhere been exorcised completely from his life. It is here that he first finds the boy, late in the twilight hours of the last day of February.

The child is young, not a day over fourteen. His cheeks are stung red with cold, wide eyes haunted and empty, body quivering beneath the meager cover of his oversized hooded sweatshirt. He sees Derek approach, watches him.

Hey, he says.

Hey yourself, Derek says back. He rolls his shoulders forward until the joints pop, hitching the collar of his jacket higher up over the nape of his neck. He asks if the kid is lost.

The boy shrugs helplessly. Little flecks of snow melt against his face, stain his thick eyelashes dark and wet.

Derek huffs out a cloud of breath and yanks the boy to his feet. Come on, he says, and they go together back through the pines.

*****

The boy calls himself Stiles, which is a name Derek thinks is too stupid to be given by even the worst of parents and just stupid enough to be self-assigned. Kid never shuts up, even between spoonfuls of the hot soup Derek shoved in his lap once they got back to the house. The wind howls outside as Derek boards up the windows against the coming storm, and Stiles chatters on as he warms his hands by the crackling logs in the fireplace.

He says he’s from around here, that his family stayed behind when most others sought shelter in the cities. Says his mother is dead and he doesn’t know where his father is, but that he knows his father isn’t dead because he’d be able to feel it if he was.

Sound logic, Derek thinks.

Stiles pushes the empty bowl away from him across the floor and Derek asks if he’s had enough. The kid smiles sweetly and stretches backwards onto the ground with an exaggerated yawn. He nods and blinks sleepily, curling up with the hood of his sweatshirt bunched up under his cheek as a makeshift pillow.

Derek sighs. He finishes boarding up the windows and then lifts the boy and carries him to the bedroom, depositing him under the woolen blankets.

He goes and sleeps alone by the fire.

*****

In the morning he goes out to hunt and gaze once more upon the ruined world. The highway is littered with grey, snow turned ashen with dirt and leaves. The same blue Pontiac that’s been sitting out on the side of the road by the mile-three marker hasn’t budged an inch, rust still eating away at the fine polish.

Derek crouches behind rotting log with his rifle and waits. He sits for three solid hours before bagging an underfed buck, nailing the animal through the lower leg and back flank before felling him with a shot to the neck.

He returns to the house with bloodied hands and fresh meat. Stiles is waiting for him on the porch.

I thought you’d left, the kid says, and he looks relieved.

It’s my house, Derek says.

He goes inside and the boy follows.

*****

At the end of the week they into town; Stiles insists on coming with, says he’s scared to stay alone up at the house. Derek allows it without protest, against his better judgment.

The streets are empty and the brick buildings in the town square look years beyond their age with layers of dust lining the porch railings and doors hanging off their hinges. The whole place looks like its soul was sucked out through the shattered windowpanes and spirited away into the clouds, leaving nothing but a hollow shell behind.

Stiles points as they cross 2nd Street, indicating the winding lane leading around the bend and down into the suburbs past the post office. I lived down that way, he says.

Derek keeps his rifle handy as they enter the grocery store. Most of the shelves have been picked clean by now, but there are still a few cans of nonperishables stocked in the back and a package of toilet paper that looks untouched poking out from under an overturned cart. Stiles grins as he snatches a can of peaches from the highest shelf he can reach, smile fading when Derek takes it from him. Expired for sure, Derek tells him gently.

He leaves the kid to flip through magazines near checkout while he goes to look through the meat department. The food is all worthless, obviously, but there are some butcher knives in sleeves under the counter that look promising. Derek stuffs them into his satchel with everything else and sifts through the drawers in the back room for a pair of sharpening stones.

When he heads to the front, he finds Stiles standing shock-still and staring through the cracked open door to the supply closet by the exit. There’s a man in plaid sprawled out on the floor, a sticky pool of dried blood forming a halo around his caved-in skull. His two front teeth are lying nearby, and a few dead flies are stuck in the crimson residue at the tear in his split jaw.

Derek pushes Stiles towards the double doors, away from the body. Let’s go, he says.

*****

Do you have a family? Stiles asks later that night, sucking juice off the lid of his can of beans.

Did, Derek says, and that’s the end of that conversation.

*****

It doesn’t stop snowing until March. Derek doesn’t understand the way the weather’s become, and he doesn’t try to predict it. He doesn’t try predict much of anything anymore.

Stiles looks more put together as spring draws nearer; his cheeks are a healthy hue and he doesn’t look so dangerously thin. When the sky looks clear again and the ground is no longer white, he offers to leave Derek be and make his own way.

I won't make you put up with me forever because you found me one day in the woods, he says.

You can do what you want, but I don’t mind the company, Derek says. He shrugs off the remark like it’s casual, but he’s quietly relieved when the boy takes his bag off the porch at the end of the day and brings it back inside.

*****

They have two rooms now; Derek in the master bed to the right down the hall and Stiles to the left sleeping in a single cot they brought from the school nurse’s office on one of their trips down into town. It’s a decent set up, all things considered.

Derek will never admit it aloud, but he’s grown accustomed to the sound of heavy breathing in the next room; it brings him peace of mind. He still feels a pang of loss every now and again when that door swings open and instead of Laura or Cora he sees a yawning fourteen-year-old boy, but in general he’s come to think of it as Stiles’ room, and the handle feels strangely right.

They stay in most days. Derek was a recluse even before, and he sees no reason to change his ways now. Stiles doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, and indeed spends the majority of his time following Derek around the house like a puppy and rambling on about this or that. The kid likes to use his alone time holed up in the library upstairs, thumbing through primarily the thicker books and mouthing the words to himself as he scans the pages. He always keeps a dictionary close by to look up words he doesn't understand instead of bothering Derek with such questions.

Derek takes him hunting one afternoon in April and finds that Stiles is a quick study with a gun. The kid knocks a bird out a tree and whoops loudly, pumping his fist and grinning excitedly. Derek wonders absently about the loss of innocence he’s facilitating, but he mostly just feels weirdly proud.

*****

You need new clothes, he tells Stiles later that week.

He takes his rifle and gives the boy a revolver, and they head down into town under the blazing eye of the sun.

There’s a Wal-Mart across from the old bookstore on Black Meadow Lane, roof caved in over much of the back left half. Derek smashes in the glass of the automatic doors and enters cautiously. Stiles trails behind, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dark.

It’s eerie how normal the place looks, considering. Aside from the debris blocking the back and the lack of fluorescent bulbs glimmering dully overhead, Derek can’t see much of a difference from when he was here last with his sisters and father.

That was long ago now, and feels longer.

I’ve gotta piss, Stiles says, clicking on his flashlight and heading for the bathrooms near the photo-booths. Derek heads to the boys’ section and picks out a few t-shirts, a couple pairs of shorts for the fast approaching summer. He holds up some long pants while looking in the scratched mirror, examining the length.

When he heads back to the front of the store, there’s a shaggy-haired man holding a dagger to Stiles’ throat.

Stay back, the man says, and he threads his fingers tightly through those dark strands of hair, yanks the kid’s head back to expose more of that pale flesh.

Derek sets his rifle on the floor. Let him go, he says.

The man leers. He turns his nose against Stiles’ cheek and breathes heavily. Don’t know about that, he says. Been a long time since I’ve had a good fuck, he says.

Derek sets off the spring-loaded trigger and his hidden sleeve gun snaps out with a sharp pop. He fires two rounds, and the man’s brains splatter all over the ground and the side of Stiles’ face. The corpse stumbles backwards for a yard or so in a kind of grotesque dance before collapsing in a pile of bony limbs on the hard tile.

Stiles’ chest heaves up and down and he sinks to ground, clutching his knees to his chest, lower lip wobbling as he struggles not to cry. Derek lowers the gun and moves to place his hand on top of the boy’s head, murmuring soft comforts.

It’s ok, he says, and the kid hugs his leg tight, shaking.

They gather up their supplies and grab a pack of bottled waters out from beneath one of the cash registers before leaving.

*****

How many people have you killed? Stiles asks back at the house, after they’ve cleaned the blood off him.

No more than necessary, Derek says.

The boy is subdued for many days after that, keeping mostly to himself in the library. Derek allows him his space.

Eventually that sad, haunted look retreats back behind the usual smiles and chatter, but Derek senses that the feelings remain just below the surface and he wonders how or if he can make this better.

*****

Stiles talks a lot, but he knows to share silence well. Derek finds himself looking forward to the evenings they spend together: the long walks in the woods and the drinks on the porch. (He lets Stiles taste his beer once, but the boy makes a grossed out face and declares it yucky. They make lemonade the next time.)

Most people would crazy out here, with the view of the mountains and the trees and the vast emptiness with no one else to see and not much of anything to do. Derek thinks he might have gone that way at some point, but now he has company. And he feels mostly content.

They stay up late sometimes, and Stiles will often fall into reminiscing, a wistful little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He says: My dad was the sheriff here, back before. He and my mom wanted a quiet place to raise a family, somewhere with a view. We’d drive all the way to the ocean on weekends and stay at my mom’s friend’s seaside cabin. We’d all lie in the sand...

Derek remains quiet, humming every now and then to indicate he’s still listening. They don’t go to bed until near dawn and they sleep through most of the next day. It rains through the rest of the week and when it’s sunny again, they go swimming in the river.

*****

Things change between them one night in the early days of summer. It starts with the two of them out on the porch: Derek in his white tank top and blue jeans, Stiles in shorts and an AC/DC shirt with the sleeves cut off.

The boy is watching him, Derek knows, but he doesn’t think anything of it at the moment. He just finishes his beer and says goodnight, heads off to bed early and collapses on the mattress without bothering to undress. He awakes less than an hour later when a small body slides in under the covers to lie flush against his own.

What, he says flatly, then freezes in alarm when he sees that the kid is naked. He scrambles back, standing up and moving to the opposite wall.

No, he says, and his voice wavers dangerously.

Even in the dark he can see the boy’s cheeks flush red with embarrassment, eyes averted as he slinks to the door with his tail tucked between his legs. Sorry, he says, and it’s barely even a whisper it’s so soft and fragile.

Stiles shuts the door and doesn’t come back, but Derek’s heart doesn’t stop pounding for another thirty minutes at least.

He gets no more sleep that night.

In the morning he’s half expecting to find the other bedroom empty and Stiles’ belongings gone. But no, the boy is sitting at the counter in the kitchen like every other day, already dressed and sipping a bottle of water.

Let’s go running, Stiles says, all casual like. There’s a silent plea in his eyes and a stiffness in his shoulders.

Derek nods slowly. Ok, he says, and Stiles relaxes.

They don’t have to talk about this.

*****

The horrible thing is that the kid _is_ cute, and not just in the way one might regard a younger brother. Derek can see the things that certain people would be likely to notice, whether he wants to or not: the bow-shape of those soft lips, the twitchy appeal of those long fingers. Those whiskey colored eyes.

He’s not proud of them, these thoughts, and he doesn’t harbor any intentions. But those things he might have been able to discard under different circumstances are deeply distracting when the boy is the only other human being he knows left in the world.

So Stiles looks at him and he doesn’t look back. But he has thoughts.

*****

Autumn brings travelers seeking refuge. A young woman and two men come up to the property one afternoon asking for shelter.

You can’t shut us out and keep this all to yourself, says the younger man, half angry and half desperate.

I lost my baby already and I won’t lose my dad, says his wife, her flyaway hair shimmering with beads of sweat.

Derek’s fingers flex, itching for the rifle back in the house. I’m not alone and you’re not welcome, he says.

The men exchange dark looks, and Derek sees this ending badly. A cocking sound catches all of their attention, and Stiles steps out from behind a tree near the side of the house, revolver in hand.

Go away, he says. His lips curl back in a silent snarl.

The woman tugs fearfully at the hem of her husband’s shirt. The group departs, casting wary glances over their shoulders as they slip down the hill. Stiles stuffs the gun back into his waistband and goes back into the house. Derek waits to make sure the others are really gone before following and starting dinner.

*****

I’ve been here a year now, Stiles says when winter comes. He gazes out at the snowfall through the clear pane of the new window.

You can leave whenever you want, Derek says, hating his own deflection.

The kid is unfazed though. Not without you, he says. Like it’s just that simple.

Derek looks around the empty house, feels the weight of all its ghosts. He nods.

I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go, he says. It’s a painful admission, and he’s silently grateful when Stiles refrains from answering.

*****

Let’s find a new trail, Derek says one day.

They strap on their boots and zip up their jackets, shuffling out into the cold with their wool hats pressed tight over their ears. Stiles says he’s never seen so much snow in his life and Derek is inclined to agree.

They walk up the highway to the overpass, then cut across into the forest up through the hills. Stiles runs along ahead, bobbing and weaving past the branches in his way, calling for Derek to hurry up. You old man, he teases.

Derek huffs out a sharp laugh, breath fogging up in front him. He gives chase and the two of them run straight into a wide meadow up at the top of the hill.

Perched on the plateau of a great boulder jutting out the side of the slope, they gaze down upon the empty town below. Stiles rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek lets him.

*****

Stiles keeps magazines in a lockbox under his mattress. Nothing graphic, mostly just tabloids and photos of models, but Derek can guess what they’re there for. He can even guess which pages are Stiles’ favorites, judging by the number of wrinkles in the paper.

There are both men and women, several pages dogeared for easy access to redheaded beauties. (Derek vaguely recalls Stiles rhapsodizing about a strawberry-blonde haired girl he’d once been classmates with.) A few pages of tall, dark haired men with brooding looks and sharply handsome features.

Derek doesn’t keep magazines. His fantasies are too dangerous; they turn too quickly to mole-spotted flesh and long fingers and whiskey colored eyes.

*****

We’re gonna run out of stuff eventually, Stiles keeps saying. Derek eventually relents, and they pick out a old unlocked Chevy sitting in the gas station parking lot to drive to the next town, some twenty miles out. The spare keys are hidden in the glove compartment next to a mostly empty bag of M&Ms.

The car runs out of gas just five minutes away from their destination and they hike the rest of the way, camping gear in tow. The town is as small as their own and equally lifeless, if not more so due to the sense of unfamiliarity.

The afternoon is spent scavenging abandoned shops for food and supplies, and they pitch a tent in the town square that evening and sleep in the shadow of a looming statue of a Greek god. The wolves howl in the distance, and Derek keeps watch with his gun in his lap while Stiles snores softly beside him.

In the morning they load up their gear in a new car with a full tank of gas and head back to the house in Beacon Hills. Stiles slumps in the passenger’s seat, drawing lines in the window with his finger. He’s unusually quiet for the rest of the day, only speaking when spoken to and keeping mostly to himself once they get back.

It’s like this everywhere isn’t it, he says, not really asking. His face is sad in the glow of the fireplace, and for a moment he looks as young as the day Derek found him. Nowhere’s better, he says.

We don’t know that, Derek says, but neither of them dare to hope.

*****

A group of thirty or so arrives that spring, and the leader comes up to the property to speak with Derek. He’s an older man with greying hair and a face that looks carved from wood, but his frail appearance belies the sharp cunning Derek can see behind his eyes.

The man tells him: We mean you no harm. We only plan to stay a few weeks before moving north. We will stay out of your way, although you and your boy are welcome to join us.

Derek politely declines, and they part ways with seeming amicability. Stiles watches from the window, the barrel of his revolver glinting in the light of the sun.

That night they hike up to their overlook in the meadow above the highway overpass and observe the newcomers from afar. Stiles says nothing, but there’s a look of longing on his face that betrays his growing loneliness. Derek grits his teeth and prays to a deity he doubts exists that the visitors will leave soon.

*****

Summer returns, and Stiles wakes Derek early one morning and drags him to the old Jensen house two miles up the road. I cleaned it, the boy says proudly, indicating the clear water in the backyard pool.

He strips down to his boxers and does a cannonball from the diving board. Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he wades into the shallow end.

The still surface turns to ripples as they drift from one end to the other in lazy laps. Stiles splashes Derek in the face and darts away with a playful grin. Derek swims beneath him and drags him under by the leg.

Later they lie out on the deck chairs and dry themselves in the sun. Derek chances a look over and swallows as a bead of moisture (sweat or water, he can’t tell) trails down Stiles’ chest and stops in the soft, dark hairs around his bellybutton.

He stands and jumps back into the pool, sinking to the bottom like a stone and stays there: under the water, away from the sound and the heat and the boy. The surface above turns to psychedelic squiggle patterns in the light.

Derek’s chest eventually becomes tight and, reluctantly, he comes up for air.

*****

A week after that, a badger gets caught in the wire under the porch and keeps them up during the night with its squealing and struggles. They put up with the noise for about two hours, and then Derek hears the squeak of Stiles’ door and the sound of retreating footsteps in the hall.

Five minutes later, the front door opens and closes and the slapping of feet on the floorboards echoes, fading into the kitchen. Derek gets up and goes out and finds Stiles examining a bleeding cut on his finger by the light above the sink.

I tried to set him free and he bit me, the boy says.

Derek disinfects the wound and sticks a bandaid on it, sends the kid back to bed. Then he takes a butcher knife from the drawer and goes outside and stabs the badger in the throat and tosses its carcass in the woods.

*****

It’s nearly August and the newcomers haven’t left yet. They’ve kept to their promise of staying out of the way, but their camp in the town square shows no signs of being dismantled anytime soon.

Derek refuses to go down to the shops to get supplies anymore. They always drive over to the other town now. Stiles thinks it’s stupid and paranoid, and that they’ll run out of gas and get stranded on the road someday.

Not everyone is evil, he says.

Derek doesn’t reply.

*****

Two women from the group hike up to greet them in September. They have smiling faces and bulky jackets, and Derek is glad for the gun in his sleeve.

They say: Join our fellowship, brothers! It is not right for you to be lonely.

We’ve been doing fine so far, Derek says. He stares them down until they leave, fingernails digging into the skin of his palms.

Stiles is out in the woods and doesn’t come home until late in the evening. They’ve started setting up in the courthouse, he says. Like a commune for them all to live in, he thinks.

They can do what they please if they stay away, Derek snarls.

He digs up the old travel TV from the basement and sets it up in the living room. There’s no reception of course, but he has a small collection of old VHS tapes, and they both have plenty of time.

*****

December again.

Stiles looks like he’s aged a lifetime, and yet not at all. His cheeks have lost a great deal of baby fat, and he’s taller and filled out with lean muscle, but at heart he’s still the same boy Derek found alone in the woods two years ago.

It’s my birthday, he tells Derek on a cloudless day mid-month.

Yeah? says Derek.

Sixteen, says Stiles. He’s grave about it, like the number holds some deep significance.

Around suppertime, Derek brings Stiles out into the backyard by the fire pit and points at a spot in the grass where he’s arranged packets of chocolate and marshmallows and graham crackers in the shape of 16.

Happy birthday, he says, and Stiles grins at him like he’s the best thing in the world.

They make s’mores over the flames and trade stories about childhood. Derek laughs so hard his cheeks hurt; he could swear his facial muscles feel sore from lack of practice smiling.

Stiles rinses down the sticky taste with some water and ruffles Derek’s hair as he passes by. Going on a walk, he says and then vanishes into the dark.

Derek cleans up the site, stamps out the fire and picks up all the empty packets. He goes to bed feeling strangely happy for once.

He’s just sinking into unconsciousness when Stiles appears in his doorway. The boy hesitates, then slips under the covers with him. Derek takes a slow, shaky breath; the kid smells of chocolate and campfire smoke and armpit and outside.

Sixteen, says Stiles.

Derek closes his eyes. Ok, he says.

*****

They take it slow, at first. Kisses and groping, and rocking inexpertly together until one or both of them comes. They don’t get into the heavier stuff for a good while.

I love you, Stiles tells him, simple as that, like he knows what it means and he can’t imagine anything else.

What am I for you? he asks once, Derek’s cock fisted in his hand, his mouth sucking eagerly at Derek’s neck.

Everything, Derek answers truthfully.

Everything forever.

*****

Stiles takes him to a shed in the woods, down a trail Derek never knew existed. He swings the doors wide for Derek to see.

I thought we could go see the ocean sometime, he says, waving a hand over all the cans of gasoline.

Derek draws him close and kisses his forehead. Sometime yes, he promises.

They go down the valley trail, making snowballs and trying to knock squirrels out of the trees. Stiles’ hat flaps up over his ear in the force of the wind, and the skin turns pink in the cold.

Back at the house, they fill the tub with warm water and soak in the ovular basin together. Stiles’ shoulders turn smooth and clean after a good scrubbing with the soap bar. He rocks forward and lies flush against Derek’s body and wraps his arms around him.

I don’t feel so lonely when we’re like this, he says.

*****

Wandering in the dark of the woods one day, Derek finds a disembodied ear in a cluster of trees. It’s grayish with decay, dangling by a loose string of skin from a low-hanging branch like some obscene piece of jewelry. A small swarm of ants crawls about the inner canal, two of them stuck together in a sticky trail of dried blood, little legs kicking in a futile attempt to break free.

Derek feels the weight of eyes on the back of his skull, and a sense of unease begins to creep over him.

That night, he fucks Stiles slow and deep, savoring the boy’s breathless gasping and murmured endearments, later swallowing the sounds into his own mouth as they trade lazy kisses in the afterglow. When they’re through and clean, Stiles lays his head on Derek’s chest and falls asleep within minutes. Derek doesn’t close his eyes until much later, and when he does he dreams of red.

*****

On February the 16th at midnight, the newcomers set the house ablaze. A team of five smash in the windows and throw Molotov cocktails through the holes. The flames lick their greedy path across the wooden floorboards and up the support beams, and Derek wakens to the sound of Stiles coughing.

A burly man with a patchy beard breaks down their door and fires his sawed-off shotgun into Derek’s side, painting the walls red. Stiles howls like a madman and tries to rip the man’s face off with his bare hands, but he’s knocked out cold by a swift punch to the nose and slumps to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Vision fading fast, Derek tries to crawl away, grimacing as a boot-heel comes down hard on his leg.

The burly man says: We don’t tolerate sin in our town.

He presses the barrel of the shotgun to Derek’s head.

Derek grabs a shard of broken glass and stabs it through his attacker’s ankle. The man barely has time to squawk and fall over before Derek rips his neck open with his teeth and spits the pulpy flesh in the corpse’s face.

A mighty roar rises up from the Hale property as the house collapses and sparks go flying into the nearby trees. The remaining men watch silently throughout the night, humming softly to themselves and circling the perimeter of the house to ensure no escape. As dawn approaches, they slowly return to their homes and leave the smoldering wreckage to finish burning.

*****

Derek comes to with a gasp of pain. Sprawled out on the basement floor with Stiles tucked protectively under the fire blanket, he gazes up through the gaping hole in the earth to look at the cheery blue sky above.

Seized by a panic deeper than any he’s ever felt, he cradles the boy in his arms and shakes, begging him to wake. His eyes sting with tears as the limp body flails uselessly in his grip.

It is a long and horrible sixty seconds before Stiles’ eyes finally burst open and he sucks in a deep breath like his lungs can’t get enough. He winces and hacks out a throaty cough, and Derek feels relief rush through him like a cold bucket of water to the face.

Are we dead, the boy wonders aloud, sounding stricken. Derek feels the relief turn to hot fury in his veins and his fingers flex against the kid’s shoulders as he hugs Stiles close.

We’re not, he says. Not us.

*****

The sun is obscured by clouds and the streets are white with snow when Derek walks into town at midday. The guards at the gate don’t even have time to open their mouths in warning before he opens fire, nailing one in the chest and the other through the eye.

The newcomers scatter. Women scream and gather their children close as they flee. Derek lets them go. He shoots down three more men in a standoff in the Wal-Mart parking lot before running out of ammo. He abandons the rifle and pats down the bodies for weapons, taking a bolo machete off the bald one as the man chokes in a pool of his own blood.

In the courthouse, the grey-haired leader turns pale as the hulking shadow appears in his doorway. Derek enters, his blade turned crimson and dripping.

Son, the old man says, palms spread wide a placating gesture.

Derek slashes him from shoulder to waist, spilling his insides onto the stone ground.

The silence lasts for only a moment before an inhuman wail makes the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck stand rigid and sends a chill down his spine. He turns to see a young girl, no older than fourteen, cowering under a desk and staring at him with wide and frightened eyes. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she stares at the old man’s body with a look of profound horror.

Derek feels the rage evaporate instantly and he lowers the machete with a heavy sigh. He drops it with a clatter and leaves through the back door, walking into the woods and up away into the hills.

*****

They pack no more than they need for light travel; food and water and toilet paper, and weapons. Most everything else lies smoldering in the ashes.

Stiles melts into Derek’s embrace as they stand once more at the jagged rock overlook and look down upon their hometown. The survivors seem to be assembling together; whether they’re moving out or forming a hunting party, Derek doesn’t know.

Time to go, he says, tugging gently at Stiles’ sleeve.

They use the trail for the woods until they reach the cross-section of the old highway with the new one, then take the new road south. The pavement is littered with abandoned cars, some even containing the rotting skeletons of deceased drivers. Stiles closes his eyes and looks away as they pass a beat up van with a red-stained child’s shoe dangling out the back.

At dusk they go off road for a ways and make camp in a field teeming with fireflies. They eat beans and bread and take small sips of water by the glow of a small lantern.

When darkness covers all, they curl up together in the shade of a tree with white bark. Stiles bites his lip and turns his face against Derek’s chest.

I’m never going to see my father again, the boy says, and he sounds like he’s truly understanding it for the first time. He bursts into tears.

*****

They walk for miles the next day. Derek tells Stiles over and over how proud he is of him, how good he’s doing. They walk until it feels as though their legs might fall off.

They stop in small Southern California town for the night, sleeping in the office of a roadside motel. Derek can see the light of a campfire down the street behind the Mexican restaurant, and he hears the sound of laughter and music, but he chooses to ignore it. Stiles says nothing.

*****

I love you, Stiles says earnestly, holding on to Derek’s hand like he’ll disappear if he lets go.

Thunder rumbles above their heads and lightning crashes in the distant mountains.

I love you too, Derek says.

*****

They eventually come upon a vast ocean. Derek isn’t even sure where they are anymore.

Stiles kicks off his shoes and smiles exhaustedly, staggering down the sandy slope to run into the waves, still fully dressed. Derek collapses in a heap, pulling himself up with a groan to sit cross-legged on the wet ground while the boy plays in the water.

A piece of driftwood washes ashore, some plank come loose from a wooden boat. A crab scuttles out from behind a rock and returns to the sea.

The remnants of a great bonfire can be seen far down the beach to the south. The smoke trails across the sky for what looks like miles.

Derek lies back on the sand and breathes.

They make an emergency shelter out of a cardboard box and some wood stakes found in a pile close by. Stiles strokes Derek’s hair and cradles his head in his lap and hums him to sleep.

In the morning Derek sheds his clothes like dead snakeskin and runs into the crashing waves to swim against the current. He returns to shore to find Stiles awake and blinking sleepily at him.

Sex, Derek says, and pulls him in for a bruising kiss.

*****

We could live here, Stiles says. He’s buried up to his neck in sand and squirming as Derek builds a castle over his belly.

Derek coughs and scrubs flecks of sand out of his armpit, a fake crown woven from seaweed perched atop his head. We could live anywhere, he says, and flashes a grin that's all white teeth.


End file.
